


Good Boy, Gregor

by Charmtion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Power Play, Rough Sex, Smut, The Mountain that Rides... Literally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 09:19:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16720623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmtion/pseuds/Charmtion
Summary: “The gods know I never wanted you, Gregor, but for now and ever more you are mine.”The Mountain has killed his horse and crossed blades with his brother, but an even greater fury waits for him in his tent: hislover. One look at her face in the shadows and he knows he’s been a bad, bad boy.





	Good Boy, Gregor

**Author's Note:**

> I… I don’t even know what to say about this. Ser Gregor Clegane is a cunt and I absolutely loathe him. But he’s a fucked-up character – and this was so much fun to write. So all I’ll say is this: **NSFW**.

The whispers reached her long before the pavilion was plunged in shadow. One look at the man who had cast it and the servants went running. They crawled like mice, each chasing after the other’s tails as they darted through gaps in the canvas. Only she remained – as she always did. She watched him absently from her perch on his high-backed chair as he stormed himself to hot fury and fire about the pavilion. He paced and raged and ranted, tearing holes in the canvas, throwing plate and mail and shield. He was a mountain of hard furious flesh, the tendons standing out thick as fingers on his neck, the veins marking his brow like a whiplash. _The Mountain that Rides_ , she thought, _only now he’s killed his mount_. Still she sat and watched, her dark eyes drinking him in, and still he raged and exploded. _The Mountain that Walks, is that the truth now?_

Finally he turned to face her where she sat half-lit by torch and half-darkened by shadow. He was red fury and hot fear, he was murderous and brutal and terrifying in the half-light. _But he is mine, gods be damned, he is mine_.

“It was ill done, Gregor,” she said, her voice warm and soft and cold and hard all at once. He took a step toward her but halted like a whipped dog when she raised her hand. She rose from his high-backed chair and went to him; he towered over her like a sentinel towers over a sapling of ash. Her face was level with his belly heaving as it was below his silver plate and mail. She lifted herself to tiptoe and balanced with her hand to his mighty chest, tipping her chin to look at him. “It was ill done.”

He breathed hot fury down into her face, his dark eyes black with bloodlust, his lips twisted in a cruel snarl. One huge hand rose from his hip and fastened about her throat; but his grip was gentle, his fingers swift and easy as they tipped back her head, his thumb a rough caress along her jaw. She saw the blackness in his eyes deepen and explode and watched him breathe hard and blink as he mastered his fury. Her hands went to his about her throat and prised his fingers free of their grip. He let her, he always did, and he watched her examine his hand with those quick brown eyes, her lashes sweeping down soft on her cheeks. He watched her and he wanted her – but he waited.

“Blood,” she said simply, tracing the crimson stains on his hand. Her eyes flicked up and met with his. “Friend or foe?” She raised her brows at him. “Or brother?”

At that he swept her up in one hard warrior’s arm and leaned into her touch. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her bare feet digging heels for grip into the gaps from his armour at his hips, and her hands rose to hold his great face, levelling it with hers. He dipped his eyes from her searching gaze and she shook him.

“ _Why_ , Gregor?” she asked on a breath. “Why do you do this?”

His brow creased from confusion and pain and muted anger, but his eyes were damp and full of despair. He leant his forehead to hers.

“The blackness,” he said, his voice sea breaking on shore. “It comes at me thick as night, full of salt and death like blood.” He grimaced as a lace of pain flared behind his eyes. “It becomes me, Clem, and I become it. We are one and the same. The blackness and the brute.” He gave a grunt. “Gods, this pain in my head makes me want to tear a man’s throat out and stamp on his corpse.”

She looked at him without word and plucked a bluestone vial from the pocket of her gown. His eyes hooked on it and he looked at her with desperation; she watched his lip tremble and felt his hands tighten on her waist. She unstopped the vial and brought it to his mouth, his eyes growing languid and soft as he sucked down the milk of the poppy as eagerly as a babe at the breast.

“The gods know you don’t deserve that, Gregor Clegane,” she said to him, her voice dark smoke. “You’re a brute and a bully.” They looked hard at each other now, flames burning in her eyes as his grew wide and round. “Worse than that. A kinslayer, a breaker of babes, a defiler of princesses.” She heard the moan start low in his throat and glared down at him, her hands hard hooks on his thick neck. “Is that not the truth, Gregor?”

“A long time ago,” he said, his voice a whisper like stones breaking.

“A long time ago,” she repeated, deceptively soft, her fingers caressing his throat. “True enough it was years ago and ever since you’ve done your best to be a good boy, haven’t you, Gregor?” He nodded earnestly. “All the things they’ve whispered about you since that night of blood and fire have been untrue, but they’ve built you to be a legend, haven’t they, sweeting? A legend of blackness and brutality.” He stared up into her eyes fervently. “But you and I know what you really are, don’t we, Gregor?” She adjusted her legs around him, her thighs clamping tight to his breastplate and rocking her further up till she rose to glare at his upturned face. “What are you, Gregor?”

“A bad man,” he whispered. “A bad, bad man.”

“The worst,” she hissed, her fingers running back through his thick dark hair, clawing at his black beard and slicing at his jaw beneath. “The very worst man there is.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek and drew back to look at him. “But to whom do you belong?” She jerked on his hair and her eyes grew heavy-lidded to hear his grunt of pain and fury. “To _whom_ do you belong, Gregor Clegane?”

“To you,” he said in a burst of breaking stone. “To you, Clem Banefort.”

“That’s right,” she said, her voice dripping hot as honey in his ears. His fingers clutched at her and she saw the hunger burning in his eyes now. “The gods know I never wanted you, Gregor, but for now and ever more you are mine.” She saw relief flood hot as blood across his face and he moved a hand to smooth her dark hair back from her face as soft as a child pets a new-born kit. “But you behaved badly today, sweeting. Very, _very_ badly. You gave into the blackness and spilt the blood of beast and brother. You made yourself look low and cruel and stupid as a bear hit by stones and shouts.” Her hands framed his great face. “It was ill done, wasn’t it?”

“It was ill done,” agreed Gregor on a voice thick with lust. “I am made low by my own black heart.” He frowned and surged toward her touch, leaning into her hands like a needy dog. “I don’t deserve you, Clem.”

“No, you don’t,” she agreed. “But you have me as I have you.” She swept his chin up and met his hungry eyes. “Now, tell me, sweet one, what do you want?”

“You,” he said simply. “You, always you.”

She kissed him hard and fast and felt his groan tear up from his throat and then she drew away. She leaned back in his arms, anchored to his bulk by her legs wound tight around him, and she pulled the clasps holding her gown up free from her shoulders, giving a sigh and a shudder as the silk slipped away from her breasts. His mouth watered with animal lust as he looked at them: stiff, wanting, rosy in the flame and shadow. She took his hand and pulled it down her throat.

“This is yours,” she whispered, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as he dragged a great hand over her breasts, the nipples turning hard as ice against his palm. “All yours, whenever you might want it.” She tipped back her head and moaned with relief as his mouth closed on the swollen nipple of her left breast. Her fingers locked into his hair and she held him there, her breath hard and fast. “When you need it.”

“I need it,” he said harshly, suckling on her nipple as desperately as he drank the milk of the poppy from her bluestone vial. “I need it always.”

She ran her hand through his hair and met his eyes where he looked up at her over the milk-white mound of her breast. She stroked his cheek and felt her cunt flood wet and warm against his breastplate as she watched him pull and suck at her nipple with his lips, his tongue darting it and rolling it, drawing it deeper and deeper into the warm cave of his mouth, his black beard rubbing the soft skin of her breast red and hot.

“Then you’ll behave, won’t you, sweeting?” she said, her voice a shiver. She drew back from him slightly; his mouth released her breast with a pop before he moved and settled at the other, taking the nipple between his teeth and lightly denting it. She could feel her cunt pulsing now, could feel how easily it slid up and down against the steel of his belly. “Won’t you, Gregor?”

He nodded while he lapped at her nipple, his eyes dream-drunk and dark. She watched him with a gaze as hot and wet as her cunt. _If only they could see you now, Gregor Clegane_ , she thought, _the men who shiver at your shadow and scurry from your path… if only they could see you suckling as greedily at my breast as a thirsty man slurps a stream_ … She stroked his head and let him suck and bite and saw the hazy calm descend on his eyes. _The only thing that quiets him, this Mountain of black storm and blood, the only thing that quells his fury as swiftly as a knife to the throat would… if only they could see him now_.

The bloodlust was hot and thick within her and she fisted a hand in his hair and pulled him from her breast, lifting his face with her grip and taking his mouth with her own. A savage kiss that tasted of rust and iron; she drew back with bloody lips and wiped the crimson from his mouth. She kicked her heels out from their handholds at his hips and slid down his steel-clad body, her fingers attacking the laces of his armour, her nails tearing at his mail and linen tunic until he was naked and hard and huge before her. A tower of sun-browned rock made flesh; he was terrifying to look at but that only made her wetter and warmer, made her whine and whimper and reach out for him.

He liked this part the best; he liked when she was soft again, when desire made her anger slip to shadow and lust forced her to look at him with eyes as languid and passive as a thrall. She was iron and fire and fury, but here now she was his, reaching and clawing for him, needing his cock hard and deep inside her, needing his rough grip and hard hips as much as he needed her nursing. He hefted her up into his arms and landed on his back on the bed that took up half the pavilion, the furs and blankets soaking up his sweat as she sat astride him, looking every inch a goddess in the flickering torchlight, rocking back on her haunches, her arse pressed to his belly as she tilted her hips up so he could see between her thighs. He watched her mad with heat and hunger as she dipped her hand between her legs and glided her fingers up and down her cunt. He could hear how wet she was as her fingers slipped and slid, he could see her pink folds glistening in the fire-glow, and he gave a wordless roar as she tipped back her head and moaned. She was moving now, her hips twisting this way and that, the soft pillow of her arse rubbing at his belly, inching back toward where his cock stood like a plinth behind her maddening movement. His hands flew to her hips and gripped hard enough to break them. She slapped at his huge forearm with her free hand and scowled at him.

“Grip at me like that again and I’ll never let you come inside,” she growled at him, but he saw the light explode in her eyes and felt her gush against his belly in response to his rough touch. She lifted her hand from her cunt and traced it up his hard body, leaving a glossy trail with her fingers. She gripped his jaw and pushed her fingers into his mouth. He sucked at them greedily, biting down gently as the smoke of her scent exploded on his tongue. “Do you want to come inside, Gregor?” He nodded furiously, his tongue circling her fingers, his hands pushing her hips to make her press back against his cock. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” he groaned, spitting her fingers out and binding her hands in one of his great fists above her head. He held her there a moment with her cunt quivering against the base of his cock, her arms raised above her head, her breasts wet and red and ravaged by his teeth stretched against her ribs, her eyes half-mad with lust – and then he turned her roughly onto her back and held her spread below the massive weight of his body. “ _Yes_.”

“What do you say?” she asked, her voice bleeding out to a whimper as he rubbed his cock back and forth along her slick hot folds, her toes curling hard, her whole body rising and stretching and luxuriating in the feel of his huge hard body trapping hers to the bed. “What do you say, Gregor Clegane?”

He gritted his teeth and held back from plunging into her as he knew she wanted him to, as he was half-mad to do; his lungs burned and his cock raged at him to push hard and fast into her heat, his eyes flickered like a dying man’s and his brain was a blur of white-hot pleasure and pain and need – but he waited.

“Please,” he choked through a throat tight with a hundred groans and garbles desperate to escape. “ _Please_ , Clem.”

She hooked her legs around his hips and brought him flush against her, her arms winding tight around his neck and she felt hot euphoria flood her mouth like blood as he thrust his cock inside her, stretching her, almost splitting her, her thighs bursting with the ache of him as he ground his hips against her. He drew back and slammed into her again, his groan a strangled breath against her neck.

“Good boy,” she murmured into his ear, her fingers leaving red-hot marks burning into his shoulders, her belly a haze of pleasure-pain as he moved hard and deep inside her. “Good boy, Gregor.”

* * *


End file.
